Chapter 2

Damon POV

Victor Vance died few days ago.

Now it was his son's turn.

Hatred didn't die with the people who deserved it. Sometimes, it simply found someone else to bury itself in.

The floor-to-ceiling windows behind my desk overlooked the city. Glass towers reflected the afternoon sun, traffic crawled through the streets below, and somewhere beneath it all, thousands of people went about their lives without realizing whose decisions kept this city breathing.

Or bleeding.

My office was silent except for the faint ticking of the antique clock mounted on the wall. A knock broke the silence.

"Come in."

Marco stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He placed a thin folder on my desk.

"Victor Vance died..."

I cut in without looking at him. "I know."

He wasn't surprised by my answer. News like that reached me long before it reached anyone else.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Then I asked the only question that mattered.

"And his son?"

"He's still living in the same apartment."

I leaned back in my chair. "Has anything changed?"

Marco shook his head. "No."

I tapped a finger once against the armrest. "Good."

A second knock interrupted us. The office door opened before Marco could answer.

Sebastian Moretti walked in wearing his usual gentle smile. "Damon."

I stood up and smirk-smiled. "Uncle."

He carried himself with effortless confidence. Even in his sixties, people straightened instinctively whenever he entered a room. To the outside world, he was the man who had held the Moretti Syndicate together after my father's death.

To me, he was the most precious family. He stopped beside my desk.

"I heard the news."

I nodded. "So did I."

A quiet sigh escaped him. "Your father can finally rest."

His voice held just enough sadness to sound genuine. I nodded once again. Then Sebastian rested one hand lightly on the back of the chair opposite my desk.

"It's strange." Sebastian held my gaze.

My brow arched slightly. "What is?"

He looked away briefly. "Hatred."

I looked at him.

"It has a way of surviving generations."

His eyes softened. "Victor Vance escaped justice by dying."

A brief pause. "But his family still carries his name."

The words settled heavily between us. He didn't tell me what to do. He never had to.

He simply just reminded me why I'd spent sixteen years refusing to let go. Sebastian gave my shoulder a light pat before turning toward the door.

"Don't let your father be forgotten."

The door closed quietly behind him and silence returned. I looked down at the folder on my desk.

ELIAS VANCE

Twenty-three years old.

Occupation: Conservator.

Employer: Whiteboard Auction House.

No criminal record. Excellent academic performance. Volunteer work. Employment references. Clean financial history.

I turned another page expecting to find any bad profile about him but found nothing. No arrests, complaints or any disciplinary actions.

A son raised by Victor Vance shouldn't look like this. He should have inherited something from that murder either greed, violence or deceit. Anything.

Instead, the file described someone painfully ordinary.

I closed it.

"Find out what he's hiding."

Marco frowned. "Sir?"

"No one is this clean."

He gave a short nod. "I'll look deeper."

---

The next report arrived two days later. Marco stood across my desk with another file in his hand.

"He leaves for work at eight every morning."

I said nothing.

"He buys groceries from the same market every Thursday."

I scoffed while playing with my pen.

"He visits his parents' graves once a week."

I looked up and Marco continued reading. "He helped an day yesterday ."

Another page.

"This morning he fed a cat before leaving for work."

He lowered the report. "That's everything."

I raised a brow. "That's it?"

Marco shrugged. "He's either the world's best actor..." He hesitated. "...or he's just a decent guy."

I held his gaze for several seconds. Then I answered quietly. "Decent my foot." Marco didn't argue. " Sons of traitors ofcourse learn to act early."

Marco let an unreadable expression but something in it suggested he wasn't convinced. That irritated me more than it should have.

"I'll handle it myself."

---

The following evening, I parked across the street from Elias Vance's apartment building. The engine was off.

The windows were tinted. From here, I had a clear view of the entrance.

Half an hour passed. Then he appeared.

A paper grocery bag rested against his hip as he climbed the steps. Before he reached the door, an elderly woman struggled with two heavy shopping bags.

Without thinking, Elias set his own groceries down. "Mrs. Harris, let me."

He carried everything upstairs for her. She smiled and patted his cheek before disappearing inside.

Elias laughed softly. Not the forced kind that people used in public. A real one.

A few minutes later, a little girl wheeled a bicycle into the courtyard. The chain had slipped off.

She frowned at it, clearly close to tears. Elias crouched beside the bicycle.

"Let's have a look."

Within minutes, the chain was back in place. The girl's face lit up. She threw her arms around him before riding away with an excited wave.

Elias stood there rubbing the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed. There were no cameras or audience. No obvious reason to pretend.

I frowned.

People like Victor Vance couldn't possibly raise sons like this. The thought came without permission and I pushed it away just as quickly.

Appearances meant nothing. If Victor had taught his son anything...It was how to wear a convincing mask.

I started the engine but something else caught my attention. Another sedan sat farther down the street. It also has dark windows with unfamiliar plates and two men inside. I didn't recognize neither of them as ones who belonged to my organization.

They weren't talking or looking at each other. They were watching only one person.

Elias.

They looked professional and too disciplined to be ordinary stalkers. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Police? A rival family? Whoever they were, they surely weren't there by accident.

I reached for my phone. Marco answered on the second ring. "Boss?"

I kept my eyes on the sedan. "Tomorrow..."

A brief silence. "...I'll meet him